Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  Then he startled, his mind racing.

  What kind of helicopter carried anti-missile flares?

  His heart stopped, his mouth growing dry.

  No civilian helicopters would carry defensive systems . . . maybe a government aircraft . . . no, none of them . . . except for maybe the royal family!

  He almost threw up in his oxygen mask.

  He was about to shoot a member of the royal family!

  He didn’t know what to do!

  The firing computer continued to growl in his helmet. He was in firing range. The system was armed and ready. Radar locked. Ready to fire.

  Am I about to shoot a member of the royal family?

  Then Prince al-Rahman’s words shot like electricity through his mind, “Shoot down the helicopter or I will kill you myself.”

  He wondered for half a second, then pushed the thought from his head. Royal family? Maybe it was. But what did it matter? His instructions were clear. If he failed, Abdullah would kill him. He didn’t have any choice.

  “Insha’allal,” he whispered as he decided what to do.

  He checked the distance and radar lock, then moved his left hand across the throttles, flipped off the safe switch and fired two advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles into the night air. The missile engines fired together in a trail of white smoke and flame and accelerated before him, then began to track downward toward the target.

  * * *

  The helicopter copilot reached for the radio console and flipped the selector to manual. The crown prince leaned over the center console and changed the frequency to 122.5 MHz, which is the emergency channel. Every U.S. aircraft in the air was required to monitor this frequency. The prince pulled on the headset and jerked the microphone to his lips.

  “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said into the mike. “This is an emergency call for any U.S. aircraft. Mayday, Mayday, does anyone read?”

  The prince released his broadcast button and listened, but the radio was silent. “Mayday, Mayday,” he repeated. “Any U.S. aircraft, this is an emergency!”

  The helicopter pilot cried out and pointed toward the threat display. Two missiles had been fired and were tracking them. Twenty miles and closing. The pilot screamed in panic. He rolled the helicopter and climbed then threw the nose toward the ocean again. The copilot reached up and released another five bundles of burning flares. The missiles continued tracking toward the helicopter, accelerating as they descended through the night air. The pilot racked the helicopter into a tight left turn, pulling back toward the missiles, trying to throw them off his tail. The copilot saw the missiles turn toward them, then slowly bowed his head.

  Prince Saud watched the missiles track toward him. In seconds they would strike. Yet he felt no panic. No fear. His mind was peaceful and calm. He was empty as a basket that had been turned upside down, the emotion having been drained from his body and his soul. He thought of Tala and his children. He believed they were waiting, and he was ready to go to them now. He knew it was over, but he was prepared to die. He’d done everything he could to win the battle. Now the war was left to someone else.

  Then he thought of his son and the last thing he could do. He pressed the transmit button and started broadcasting again.

  “Mayday, Mayday,” he said over the radio. “This is an emergency call to any U.S. aircraft in the region. This is Saudi Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal with an emergency message for Major General Neil Brighton of the national security staff. Neil, my friend, all of my family is dead. I have one son who is living and you must rescue him. The Agha Jari Deh Valley . . . you will find him there. He is there with my . . . .”

  The missile hit the helicopter in the left engine bay. Prince Saud felt the fire and heat but only half a second of burning pain.

  * * *

  The F-15 pilot saw the explosion lighting up the night sky, a yellow fireball with a billowing white and black core. He saw the smoke rising as the scattered pieces of the helicopter began to rain from the sky, pelting the ocean in a hailstorm of smoking metal and burning debris. The fireball disappearing quickly as the pieces fell. Then he smiled, satisfied, and turned his jet back toward his home.

  His mission was successful. Looked like he would get his first star.

  THIRTEEN

  The hallways of the Pentagon are a wide, windowless and wondrous maze of interconnecting spokes and rings that start at the center courtyard and work their way out from there. They are crowded and dull and brightened only by the colorful assortment of Air Force, Army, Navy and Marines uniforms. The Pentagon has its own Metro station (one of the largest and most crowded in the city) as well as several cafeterias, its own shopping mall, bank and mail delivery operations. The services the Pentagon offers are equal to those of any small city—which, of course, is exactly what it is. More general and flag officers work in the Pentagon than any other single place on earth, most of them housed in the executive hallway along the outermost ring on the northwest side of the Pentagon. The building is always crowded and there is a sense of urgency that simply isn’t replicated in any other government building, with the exception of the White House or perhaps the CIA. Those who walk the Pentagon halls know they are the sword of the nation, the tip of the spear, and they are willing to die for their country and to keep their people free.

  Major General Neil Brighton had a small annex office along the outer ring of the Pentagon, one hallway over from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was an understated and private affair, a single room with no reception area, secretary, or staff. A place to think where he came to get away from the ringing phones and constant meetings and appointments that plagued his White House office. Inside the wood-paneled room, he had a small desk set against the back wall where he could turn in his chair and look out a large window onto one of the huge parking lots that surrounded the Pentagon. In the distance, the buildings of Washington, D.C. rose, punctuated by the Washington Monument’s pearly white spire sticking up in the air. Unlike his White House office, which was decorated with pictures of him with two presidents, a vice-president, the secretary of defense, several senators and congressmen and various foreign leaders. The walls of his Pentagon office were decorated with his real love, which certainly wasn’t politics, but fighters and fighting men. There were pictures of him as a lieutenant standing in front of his first F-15, pictures of him flying in formation along the Korean DMZ, over the Egyptian pyramids, and the Brandenburg Gate of the old Berlin Wall. There were pictures of him as a captain and a major, always in olive or desert camouflage flight suits, posing in front of a fighter jet. There were pictures of him with his squadron mates in various locations around the world; deep sea fishing in the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, riding camels in Iraq, eating sauerkraut at Lelas, and fighting wars in Kuwait, Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. A stranger could trace the general’s career by looking at the pictures on the wall, from his flying days as a lieutenant to his first staff job at the Pentagon, the wing commander at Langley to another staff job with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was here that the transition to a political animal became complete—where he started having more pictures of him with ambassadors and presidents than military friends.

  The general had been back from his trip to Saudi Arabia for less than a day. The sun had set over the Washington, D.C. and the parking lot lights had clicked on. Brighton sat alone in his office and stared out the large window, lost in his thoughts. Then came an urgent knock and his aide pushed back the door. “Sir,” a colonel said as he rushed into the room.

  Brighton turned wearily. “What you got, Dagger?” he asked.

  Colonel “Dagger” Hansen took a quick step toward his desk. “Bad stuff in Saudi.”

  Brighton stood immediately. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal is dead, sir. His helicopter was shot down a few hours ago.”

  Brighton’s knees almost buckled and he took a quick breath. He felt like he had been hit in the stomach and he a
lmost grimaced in pain. “Are you certain?” he demanded. “How do you know it was him?”

  “We know,” the colonel answered. “And that’s not all, sir. The news gets much worse. Now come, I’ll explain while we walk. The National Security Staff is assembling in the Situation Room and the president wants a briefing in an hour.”

  Hansen turned for the door and Brighton followed. The colonel explained what he knew as they jogged down the hall.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Major General Brighton was sitting at the Situation Room conference room table, surrounded by national security staff. He read the transcript of the radio call:

  Mayday, Mayday . . . this is an emergency call to any U.S. (UNREADABLE) in the region. This is Saudi Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal with an emergency (UNREADABLE) for Major General Neil Brighton of the (UNREADABLE). Neil, my friend, all (UNREADABLE) . . . I only have one son (SIGNIFICANT UNREADABLE) . . . living? You (UNREADABLE) (rescue/rescued/resist??) him. The Agha Jari Deh Valley. (SIGNIFICANT UNREADABLE) . . . He is there with my . . . .

  Brighton checked the time of the transcription, then the time the interception took place. He studied the UNREADABLE portions of the transcript, trying to fill in the blanks, then turned to the communications specialist on the NSC staff. “Who picked up the message?” he asked.

  “One of our receiving birds out of Baghdad,” the staff member answered.

  “It wasn’t broadcast to any particular receiver?”

  “No, sir, it was not. It was a call in the blind. A couple dozen other U.S. aircraft reported hearing the broadcast, including several receivers inside of Saudi Arabia. The reconnaissance aircraft had its recorders activated and was able to get the transmission, but the helicopter was so low it impeded the range of the broadcast. As you can see, there are significant portions that are unreadable.”

  “It wasn’t broadcast using Have Quick secure radio?” he asked.

  “Negative, sir,” the young lieutenant replied. “No secure means of encryption were employed. Quite the opposite, the radio call was broadcast on the civilian guard frequency. It was the crown prince’s intention to get the message to as many people as he could, hoping it would eventually make its way to you. Clearly, that was his intention. He mentions you by name, that much of the broadcast came through loud and clear.”

  “But if he was trying to send me a message, why not use his satellite radio?”

  “Time, sir, or lack of it. It takes a couple seconds to synch up to a satellite. And when Prince Saud made this radio call, he was already under attack. It was amazing he had the presence of mind to get this much out. We’ve gone back and looked at some of the reconnaissance information from one of our Looking Glass IIIs. When this radio message was broadcast, the crown prince’s helicopter was deep into evasive maneuvers. Missiles had already been fired. They were six, maybe eight seconds from impact. The broadcast was terminated when the missiles impacted the target.”

  Brighton sat back and thought, imagining the chaos in the helicopter in the last seconds of the prince’s life as they tried to evade the inevitable. He considered the courage and calm the prince had displayed. He was a good man. A friend of America. He was going to miss him deeply. The world was not as good without him, as well as much less safe.

  “And the unreadable portions of the transcript?” he then asked, pushing his personal anguish aside.

  “We’re still working on that, sir. There were a couple times when Prince Saud slipped into Arabic, so our translators have been going over the recording, trying to complete the transcription, but as I mentioned, the helicopter was low and portions of the transmission didn’t come through. It might be this is the best transcription we ever get.”

  The general laid the transcript on the table and stared at the far wall. The staff worked busily around him, but his mind drifted back. The crown prince had warned him. But did he have any idea he was so close to death? A sudden chill ran though him. How much did the prince really know? He thought of the codeword. Was this Firefall?

  He turned back to his staff. “Who was with him in his helicopter?”

  An intelligence officer stepped forward. “So far as we know, he was alone.”

  Brighton shook his head. The Crown Prince of Arabia. Alone. In his helicopter. In the middle of the night. Out over the water. It was more than unusual, it was completely absurd. Turning to the transcript, he read it again. “I only have one son.” He looked up from the transcript and stared again into space.

  Colonel Hansen moved to the conference table and sat down as a small group of staff members gathered around them. The colonel’s face was taut and he nervously wet his lips. “Sir, we’ve been poking around since we intercepted this message,” he said. “Our consul in Riyadh has been trying to talk with King Faysal, but hasn’t been able to get through. However, the king managed to send us a message. We are still trying to confirm its authenticity, but it appears to be real.” Hansen paused and wet his lips again.

  “Yes?” Brighton demanded.

  The colonel looked around anxiously. “I’m sorry sir, but we think Crown Prince Saud’s family has also been killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Assassinated. A political hit.”

  “His family?”

  “His sons from Princess Tala, Prince Saud’s most senior heirs. And maybe Princes Tala and their daughter as well, all of them killed a little more than forty-eight hours ago.”

  Brighton’s face drained of color and he blinked his eyes suddenly. He shook his head in doubt. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I know you and Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal were good friends. It’s a kick in the gut, especially with his family . . . .”

  “I don’t believe it!” Brighton repeated, his voice growing sour. His thoughts came to him slowly, thick tar in his mind. “Why would anyone kill his family? With the security that’s around them, I don’t see how they could!”

  His staff members stared at him, none of them willing to reply. Hansen tapped a finger on the table, pointing to a line on the transcript. He didn’t say anything, but his growing impatience was becoming clear. “I’m sorry, sir, but it happened,” he finally said. “I know he was your friend, but the old guy was bopped off, along with his wife and kids. We know they’ve been killed. Now we have to figure out what it means, why it happened and what’s going to happen next.”

  Brighton turned toward him and Hansen tapped the transcript again, the surety of his action enough to cast Brighton’s disbelief aside. “We are seeking confirmation, turning over every stone,” the colonel continued, “but from what we are hearing from our friends at the Israeli Mossad, as well as our guys in Syria and Iraq, it looks like one of King Faysal’s sons is making a move.”

  The general’s face drained of color.

  A power struggle in the kingdom! It was impossible to overstate the danger this would create. The instability in the Persian Gulf would send the price of oil through the roof. It would cripple western economies at a time when they were already on the edge. The hard cash it produced would be used to breathe money and life into al Qaeda and several other terrorist regimes. It would destabilize the entire region, including the fragile Iraqi government, while bringing out all the snakes and spiders in Syria, Iran, and Lebanon. It could shut down the Persian Gulf to international shipments of oil while increasing the opportunities for nuclear proliferation in the most dangerous part of the world. It would mean the military forces in Israel would be on hair-trigger alert. It would mean . . . . He felt a sick knot in his throat.

  He took a deep breath. All right. It was here. He would deal with it . . . they would deal with it . . . they would do what they had to do. He rubbed his face, then his hair, then took a deep breath. Staring at the transcript, he started thinking clearly for the first time since walking into the Situation Room. “The prince’s son,” he wondered, “the Agha Jari Deh Valley?” A light began to flicker inside his head.

 
; “Princess Tala?” Brighton asked. “She was killed, along with all of her children.”

  “Yes, sir. That is what we have been told.”

  “But there were no other assassinations?”

  “Not that we know of right now.”

  “You know that Prince Saud had another son. He had a second wife. Another child.”

  The colonel didn’t answer. That was something he didn’t know.

  “His enemies are trying to kill Prince Saud’s heirs,” Brighton said. “He is claiming stake to the kingdom . . . .”

  “Sir?” Hansen questioned, then stopped and let Brighton think.

  Brighton shook his head in frustration. Then it hit him like a slap on the head. “Get me a map,” he demanded.

  A map was laid out before him and one of the specialists pointed at the crash site in the Persian Gulf. “Was the prince’s helicopter fly east or west?” Brighton asked.

  “West, sir. Toward Saudi Arabia.”

  The general considered, thinking of what the crown prince had said, the warning in the garden, the fear in his voice. “Where is Agha Jari Deh?” he asked. Hansen pointed at the map. The general drew a line with his finger between Saud’s personal heliport in Riyadh . . . the border . . . across the Gulf to Iran . . . through the mountains to Agha Jari Deh. The line was almost perfectly straight. He swallowed hard. “He hid him!” he said.

  Hansen looked at him, not understanding.

  Brighton pointed again. “He was hiding his last son, his last heir. He took him to Iran.” His voice was so certain, no one dared argue with him.

  Brighton moved toward an illuminated map on the wall. The small group of advisors followed, Hansen staying at his side. “Prince Saud knew it was coming,” Brighton explained. “He tried to warn me.” He pointed to the small village with his finger. “He was over the Persian Gulf, on his way back from where he had hidden his son in Iran.”